


Whiskey and Tango

by supernatasha



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1920s, AU, Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernatasha/pseuds/supernatasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ASOIAF 1920's AU: Arya is a rumrunner in disguise; Gendry is the bartender of a speakeasy she delivers to. She needs a place to stay and he needs a friend.</p><p>[a/n: on temporary hiatus until winter break.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faceless Men

_Knock. Knock Knock. Knock._

Arya watches with narrowed eyes from her perch on the truck as the door swings open. A large man greets her boss with a clap on the shoulder and a wide smile.

 _Everyone smiles when we knock,_ she thinks.

“Got the goods?” he asks.

“Do the Faceless Men ever knock with empty hands?” her boss replies. No, they don’t. Her establishment had taken to calling themselves the “Faceless Men” with how quickly they changed employees, a name she was often tempted to correct. Of course she couldn’t. Women had no place in this business.

The sounds of music and hushed voices waft out through the open back door. She pulls her newsboy cap lower and waits for instructions.

Her boss, referred to only as the Kind Man, calls, “Arry, the cases. Attaboy, get to work.”

She nods and jumps off the truck. Her wolf follows her off, landing gracefully and silently on the road. He growls at the owner and Arya snaps, “Nymeria, quiet!” Thankfully, the men ignore her.

Even though she’s smaller than most of the other runners, she’s more than capable of unloading the crates on her own, all long limbs and strong muscles. And the other runners asked for more money; Arya was happy with just a place to stay and whatever she managed to snag as food. She takes the first into her arms, feels the whiskey inside sloshing against their glass bottles, a sound almost mesmerizing and just as fascinating, and grunts as she hoists it up. Nymeria shadows her, panting in the heat of the New York spring night. It was still cooler than Havana, where she’d spent the better part of the month, loading and unloading bottles into crates, crates into freighters, stowing away in the hidden panels in the ships bottom with Nymeria pressed against her, finding places to the stay the night- open barns, cute boys, grassy hills.

The inside of the speakeasy is cool and smells of liquor and fresh baked bread. Arya knows the front will be hot and crowded with rowdy men and loose women. For a moment, she wonders what it would be like to be one of the customers there, ordering and paying, dressed in nice clothes, swinging to the beat of the happy music. She shakes the fantasy out of her head. Ever since her family had lost their distillation factory, arrested by Detroit cops and half of them dead, she knows better than to expect anything better than this kind of treatment. She prefers to be in the back than the front anyway. She never fit in with that lifestyle.

Arya lets the case drop to the floor and heads back outside. The Kind One is murmuring to the owner, saying, “Beric, costs are rising. Coppers are everywhere. You’ll have to pay more.”

The owner, Beric, ushers the Kind One inside and they disappear into a side room.

By the second round of hauling cases, Arya feels sweat gathering in her clothes. She’s been in the same filthy clothes two sizes too large all day, visiting speakeasys around the eastern coast of the country. She ensures that the Kind One and Beric are still in the room before pulling off her drenched cotton shirt she had filched from a clothesline in Virginia. It was too big for her anyway, but Arya didn’t want to take the chance of anyone seeing her in a tighter shirt, with her bindings coming loose under it.

Nymeria curls up in a corner of the back room and Arya works largely in silence. It’s their last delivery of the night. This, at least, is a small blessing.

She doesn’t hear when he comes in, only when he says, “You can’t have dogs in here.”

“Wolf,” she snaps, voice higher than she would’ve liked it to be. Reflexively, she slouches her shoulders and crosses her arms over her chest to hide any curves he might notice in the dim light.

“Looks like a dog,” he says. Her eyes adjust and she sees him more clearly, black hair and blue eyes, built broad and tall. He’s dressed like a bartender, in a vest and collared shirt. From the front, then.

In a deeper voice, “Well, it’s not. So fuck off.”

He shrugs. “Still don’t think you can have it here.”

“She, not it, you sap,” she says in irritation. She just wants to finish her work.

He laughs. “Got a mouth on you like a sailor, boy.”

“Sailed from Havana, didn’t I?”

He holds out a packet to her and nods his head in the direction of the door. “Fag break?”

Arya takes one, still slouching, still wary. She leaves Nymeria and heads outside, keeping in the shadow. He strikes a match for her and she leans in, inhaling. He uses the same match to light his own. His face lights up by the warm ember burn. He’s got a nice face, she thinks vaguely. In Havana, she had slept with a boy named Jacinto, with red and white hair. This boy reminds her of that one. They both have the same intense eyes.

“Havana, huh? So you’re one of them Faceless Men?”

She nods and blows smoke out. She’s never had this brand of smokes before. The stuff she has usually burns on its way down. This is smooth, with a nice aftertaste. Processed tobacco, maybe. “Just got back a few days ago. No idea where we’re gonna stay the night. Me and Nymeria could probably fit in the back of the truck when it’s empty. No way the Kind Man will.”

“That sounds real cozy,” he jokes.

“Better than some of the places I’ve slept. Beric your old man?”

He makes a harsh sound in his throat. It takes her a moment to realize it was meant as mockery for a laugh. “Nah, Beric took me in. Gave me a job after my forge burned down by hooligans. Never knew my real father.”

“Aw, hell,” she mumbles, at a loss. Another pup separated from his pack. She misses her own father, shot through the head running from cops. He’d been a loving man to his kids, though involved in a dangerous occupation. “Sorry.”

“And you? The Kind One’s your dad?”

She shakes her head. “I just work for him. Dad’s dead.”

He doesn’t answer, perhaps has nothing to say. The language every orphan shares universally rears its head again: anguish. They smoke in silence for a while more, crickets and bottles of whiskey their only companions. The muggy air is still and suffocating, but she can smell the bloom of flowers. He finishes and crushes the butt under his polished heels. He holds out a hand out to her, a large calloused hand. “Gendry,” he introduces.

“Arry,” she replies, ignoring the thin sheen of sweat layering her from head to toe, refusing to evaporate in the humidity, and shaking his hand. His grip is powerful, sturdy fingers nearly overlapping over her knuckles.

“Small hands for a rumrunner,” he notes. “Pretty.”

It's a strange thing to observe and she snatches back her hand and says, “Mind your own fucking business.”

Gendry looks taken aback. “I didn’t… ‘s not how I meant it.”

“Don’t care. I got work to do here and, unless you’re blind, you’ll have seen the trucks still full.” She turns her back to him, cigarette dangling from her mouth, still savoring, hesitating to let quality fall from her lips. She doesn’t look back at him but by the time she turns with her hands full, he’s gone.

 _Gendry,_ she thinks. Weird name.


	2. A Place to Stay

 

Gendry can’t shake the lad from his mind. There was something off about him. Skinny, to be sure, but something else he had noticed. He smelled nice for a bootlegger, like leather and spice. Nicer than some of the others, anyway, not reeking in sweat and filth. It’s at the edge of his mind but he can’t take the time to properly think it through. It’s a busy night. Men hand him bills and gruffly order the cheapest he can offer, vamps flirt and wink and ask him if he wants a fun night.

When the crowd clears and orders slow, drunks the only ones still hanging on, bartering for a drink with their last penny, Beric comes to Gendry.

“Son of a bitch thinks he can hike the prices up on me. I look like I’m made of money?” he demands.

“No, sir,” Gendry answers.

“You think I should pay him what he’s asking?”

“Dunno, sir. I work with my hands, not my brain,” Gendry’s never been ashamed of it, either. He’s good with his hands. Back at the smiths, he was their star. From tough thick horseshoes to slim intricate jewelry, he always completed an order within days with compete satisfaction.

Beric heavily sat down across from him. “I ain’t got to pay ‘til they leave and the boy’s still unloading the last of it. Heavy lifting for a stick like him, but it smells quality to me. This delivery should easily last us a month, if I pay the Faceless Men in time.”

“Why don’t you strike a deal instead?” Gendry suggests. “Give ‘em hot meals and a place to stay in the back rooms. The skinny kid mentioned they don’t have anywhere yet.”

Beric mulls it over, then grins. “Brilliant! Boy, don’t you ever tell yourself you can’t think.” He bustles out of the bar, leaving Gendry alone with the drunks again. He doesn’t mind, a small swell of pride rising in him. It’s nice to be of use sometimes.

He wipes everything down and throws the complaining intoxicated men out onto the streets, keeping an eye out for cops. When he goes back inside and starts putting chairs up to sweep, he notices Arry sitting on the bar, a green apple in hand. When their eyes meet, the depthless grey, the boy nods but doesn’t speak.

Gendry goes back to work, aware of the boy’s eyes on his back. When he finishes with the broomwork, the boy’s still sitting there.

“What?” he asks, switching off the jazz notes flowing from the jukebox.

“What?” Arry echoes, petulant.

“You want something, pretty boy?” Gendry demands, still remembering the boy’s rough attitude and returning it.

“Beric says we gotta bunk together. Him and the Kind Man are gonna… visit some women,” the boy says with some disgust, his nose wrinkling. Didn’t like the idea much. “Where d’you sleep?”

“There’s a room upstairs, with a bath and kitchen and everything. Beric dished out for plumbing and lighting and all of that. He usually sleeps at his own house, but I’m guessing neither of them is coming back for the night.”

Arry still doesn’t move. Gendry keeps his eyes fixed on him until finally he says, “You got any extra meat? Doesn’t matter if it’s spoiling. Nymeria’ll eat anything, so long as it’s grub.”

Gendry nods. “Check the icebox in the back. Don’t take too much or Beric’ll have my hide. Smell it first, don’t go wasting good fresh meat on your bitch.”

“Thanks,” Arry grumbles, springing off the bar. He’s gone almost quicker than Gendry’s eyes can follow. Again, that nagging feeling returns- something off about the boy. Something he recognizes but can't quite put into words. Something about how fast Arry moves... But then, he figures, if you wanted to be a runner, you’d have to be quick about it.


	3. Instinct

She hasn’t had a bath, not a proper one, in what feels like years. She heats the water first, fills the tub and just _lays_ in it without moving a muscle. It’s absolutely heavenly. In Detroit, their estate had a pool on the property, heated, always warm. She’d never appreciated it back then, but now she would kill to dive into it again. And the soap, oh. It reminds her of being a child again, smelling like something floral and just so fresh. She scrubs until her skin is pink. Arya can practically feel the dirt and sweat melting off her. _Tomorrow_ , she thinks lazily, _maybe I’ll even clean Nymeria_.

Her peace is interrupted by hammering on the door.

“Arry, open up! I gotta take a piss!”

“Can it wait?” she shouts back, water sloshing over the edges.

“For cryin’ out loud, no! Now open before I take a leak on your fucking mattress.”

The water’s getting cool anyway. Arya grabs a towel from the rack and wraps it under her arms like her mother had taught her. After a second’s consideration, she just throws it around her shoulders and drapes it over her chest in hopes of seeming less feminine. Her binding fabric lies in a mess of twists and knots beside the tub and she hastily throws her pack over it. Her slouch returns by the time she opens the lock.

Gendry comes rushing in past her, already unzipped, and sighs in relief as soon as he reaches the toilet. Arya averts her eyes and hesitates, considers going back into the room. But she doesn’t want to risk him walking in on her without her bindings, or a shirt, or pants, or… she decides to just wait him out.

“Is that my towel?” He asks suddenly.

She looks up to see him studying her calmly, blue eyes fixed. Suddenly feeling transparent, Arya clears her throat and tries not to let her voice waver, “Oh, yeah. Um, sorry, I couldn’t find anything else and you were hollering like a maniac.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll get another one for m’self,” he shakes and zips up. At the sink, he looks up at her in the mirror. “You had anything to eat yet? Other than that apple?”

Arya shakes her head, still avoiding his eyes.

“I’ll fix you a sandwich, then,” he says and leaves.

Arya shuts the door behind him and sighs. Her knees feel like giving out, but she flattens her spine against her back. She’s survived worse, she thinks. When she first found herself homeless, she’d been forced to shave her hair down to nothing to avoid the lusty gazes of men. She had forced herself to become a rag-tag orphan with a dirty face and a deep voice. She felt safer these days and had definitely picked up a few skills to protect herself, but still had to be alert.

She’s careful with her bindings, wrapping them tighter around her chest so they don’t come apart as they had earlier when she was working. Satisfied, she puts on fresh clothes and cleans up behind herself.

Gendry’s back is turned when she comes into the room, humming to himself and slicing tomatoes. He’s taken off his work clothes, in a loose button-up and knickers to his knees. “Sorry about earlier,” Arya says. “I hadn’t had a bath since Havana.”

Gendry shrugs, “I get it,” and keeps working.

The room above the speakeasy is small, barely enough room to fit their two mattresses and his wardrobe. The kitchen is just a counter and an ice box beside a sink, not a real kitchen. She joins him in the little space and grabs a slice of cheese, chewing on it raw. She asks, “Need help?”

“Can you cook?”

She shakes her head. “Mama tried to teach me and my sister but I despised being stuck in a hot and stuffy kitchen.”

She thinks, _she’d kill me if she knew I was calling her “Mama” instead of “Mother.”_

“She taught you both?” Gendry asks and Arya realizes she’s slipped up.

“Uh, yeah. She was big on equality , you know, one of those women. Not one of those godly women, the other kind- talking about the vote and working hours and all that, teaching boys to cook, teaching girls to drink,” she covers.

“Hm,” Gendry looks down. “Nothing wrong with that. Some of the cleverest women I’ve met walk through that door downstairs and ask me for a scotch.”

Arya blinks and mumbles, “Yeah, nothing wrong.”

They eat in relative quiet, a question here, an inquiry there. She offers to clean the dishes while he goes to wash up. By the time he comes back, she’s already on her allotted mattress, one arm behind her head and the other holding a lit cigarette (one of her own this time, the one that tastes like the sticky hot nights of Havana, curled up barefoot besides Jacinto under the stars and exchanging words in Spanish and English). Blankly, she stares up at the ceiling. She can’t remember the last time she was on a real spring mattress, with a real duvet filled with feathers and not straw.

Gendry lies across his own mattress and undoes his shirt a button at a time. Arya stares at him without moving her head. His bulging muscles ripple with every movement, shoulders, arm, chest, dropping his shirt at the foot of his bed. He exhales softly and says, “Hey, pretty boy, you’re not gonna get too hot, are you? I ain’t got a fan.”

“I’ll make it through the night,” she answers, thinking how much warmer the temperature had gotten now that Gendry was bare-chested, crushing the stub of her cig out against her leather boots.

“You take your shirt off if you need to cool down.”

Arya shifts uncomfortably, turning to her side. “I’ll be fine,”

“You’re sure?”

“Lay off,” she snaps. “Why are you so interested? You queer or something?”

“Why? Are you?” He demands, sitting up and facing her direction. “You hiding something in there?”

“I ain’t got nothing to hide!” Arya defends, her voice becoming embarrassingly shrill. She sits up as well, slouching immediately.

“Yeah, you do. I know you do. I’ve known it since I saw you unloading the crates. Instinct.”

Arya thinks back to earlier, to taking off her over-shirt with her bindings coming loose, her girlish voice when she was frustrated. “I’m nobody with nothing to hide. And you’re just a stupid boy,” she says evenly.

“But you’re not, are you?” Gendry’s voice is barely above a whisper, as if he’s just now realizing it, figuring it out even as he speaks. “You’re a girl. I’ve seen it. You wearing that shirt in the back, not wrapping the towel around your waist- I saw your body under it. Little hands.” He inclines his neck closer to her bed. “You’re a girl.”

Arya clenches her jaw. Her body trembles the slightest bit. She bunches the sheets in her fists, feeling her back taut and tense. “Damn you,” she says, her voice hoarse. “Look, I need this job. I ain’t got money or a home anymore after my family split. I’m fucking good at this business and I’m quiet, it feeds me and the wolf and I keep my nose clean. I don’t need trouble. If anyone finds out I’m not a man, they’ll- they’ll do horrible things. You know what kind of things. Are you… you gonna tell anyone? Beric? The Kind Man?”

Even in the dark, she sees him shake his head. “No, I won’t.” He lays back on the bed and turns his back to her.

Arya feels the fight go out of her, pulse still pounding, limbs numb. Her fists relax. “Thank you,” she whispers into the room. He never replies.

It’ll be hours before she can feel her hands again. 


	4. Move

When Gendry wakes to the wan light of the sunrise, he’s completely hard. Just the thought of a woman sleeping in the bed beside him is enough to be arousing. He turns his head to check if she’s awake. Her eyes are shut and the rising of her chest is even. He reaches into his knickers and takes himself into his hand. Careful not to make noise or shake the wooden frame, he begins stroking. His breath hitches in his throat, thinking of Arrys’ steely gray eyes. He hasn’t ever done it with another woman, no sex and barely any kissing with the baker’s daughter or the young woman from the west at the salon. All he’s really ever had was in the quiet of night in his bed.

His eyes close of their own accord, feverishly moving his hands under the covers.

“Gendry? What’re you doing?” he hears and freezes mid-stroke. She sounds disoriented, her voice soft and sleep-laden. “Gendry?” she calls again.

“Huh?” he manages to choke out.

“Oh, sorry. Thought I heard something. Looked like you were shivering,” he hears her duvet rustling, slight creaks from the bed, then she settles in and murmurs. “Night.”

“Night,” he croaks.

He waits and waits until he’s certain she’s fallen asleep again, quietly tip-toeing out of bed into the bathroom. He finishes with the door locked and water running in the sink. He crawls back under the covers after cleaning himself, but he knows he won’t be able to get back to sleep again.

Instead, he goes down to the bar where the girl’s wolf is sleeping under one of the tables. The wolf looks up when Gendry comes in and promptly goes back to sleep. He measures himself half a glass of whiskey and sits there nursing it until he loses all track of time. By the time Arry comes down the steps with one hand straightening her short tangles and the other rubbing an eye, the sun is fully out, casting yellowish light into the speakeasy. She looks beautiful in her loose billowy shirt and pants from a fabric he can tell just by looking must be from Havana because nothing in New York would be that texture. He doesn’t know how he missed her being a girl the first time. Now that he knows, it’s impossible to miss. She moves with grace and conviction.

Her wolf opens her eyes and trots over when she sits on the bottom step.

“What’s your real name?” he asks impulsively.

She looks at him and her brow furrows, eyes flicking around the room.

“Don’t worry,” Gendry says. “Beric’s not in ‘til the afternoon. We only open around 4.”

“Arya Stark. I lived in Detroit, on an estate called Winterfell.”

“Stark? Like, of the infamous Starks?” he asks. Everyone knows of the Starks, who ran the biggest liquor factory in the north, started by Lyanna Stark, until the Volstead was passed. After that… well, the family’s name faded from the mouths of the people. He knew the elder Stark, Robb, had tried some sort of political career that had ended up in assassination. “You know the government’s still offering money for anyone spilling the whereabouts of any of the Starks?”

“You open your mouth and say one word about me to anyone, I’ll slit your fucking throat as you sleep and feed your cock to Nymeria,” Arya says casually, as if asking what was for breakfast.

He chuckles, amused by her audacity, and holds out his whiskey glass to her as a peace offering. “Truce?”

“Don’t drink,” she replies, stroking the thick coat of the beast at her feet.

“Really?” his voice is skeptical. “A rumrunner who doesn’t drink? A rumrunner from a family famous for drinking who doesn’t drink?”

“Never really acquired the taste,” she says, lighting a cigarette.

“You’re one of ‘em high hats, ain’t cha?” Gendry demands, though his tone is closer to banter than judgment. “All courtesies and fancy Fords. No talking to the lower class, behaving like a lady.”

She glares at him with her lips clamped tight around the cigarette. “And you? Bastard born in a brothel, slaving away at the forge.”

Surprisingly, it hurts when she says it like that, like being a bastard is an insult. He’s always tried not to pay any attention to that thought but he knows it’s true and it gives him a tarnished name. She must realize it because her expression softens and she quickly amends, “I’m sorry. Don’t call me a lady and I won’t call you a bastard.”

“What’s wrong with being a lady?” he asks.

For a moment, Arya’s eyes unfocus and the fingers holding the cigarette droop. The wolf at her feet growls deep in her throat. When she answers, her voice is strained. “Who knows how they’d treat a lady on the streets, a pretty red-haired lady.” Gendry frowns. Her hair is brown as bark, not red. She clears her throat and her gray eyes look him square. “Anyhow, my favorite brother was born a bastard. What’s wrong with bein’ a bastard?”

He doesn’t answer. She wouldn’t understand, Arya Stark, daughter of the eminent Eddard Stark and niece of the woman who ran the largest liquor business in the north. He changes the topic instead. “When are you leaving?”

“Dunno yet. Depends on the Kind Man, and he’s screwy in the head,” she finishes the last of her cig, gets off the steps, and heads to the jukebox. A moment later, swing music wafts into the bar, soft but upbeat. “Enough with the morbid topics.”

“What do you wanna do instead? Dance?”

She fixes him with somber grey eyes and he nearly feels the ridiculousness of his question. Of course she doesn’t want to dance. She probably wants to smash bottles over copper’s heads and hunt squirrels or something. Then, to his surprise, “Sure.”

Blinking back shock, he stammers, “Oh- I didn’t- I don’t… I don’t know how to dance. You’re telling me you do?”

“You think a Stark doesn’t know how to dance?” Arya smirks and, her hips moving and her bare feet pattering over the floor, moves a few steps closer to him. He nearly falls out of his seat at the elegant movement, her grace and strength. “We can shoot guns and we can dance. Although, to be fair, I did learn this one in Havana. Now get over here and I’ll show you how to tango.”

Gendry swallows. “No way. I’m clumsier than a bull.”

“C’mon, do it,” she dares him, holding out a hand, eyebrow raised. “It’ll be fun.”

He looks down at the glass of whiskey and up at her outstretched slender hand. He wants to see her hips moving again and those hands pressed to his back. “You drink and I’ll dance.”

“Deal.”

Arya takes the glass out of his hand and swirls it. She contemplates the beige liquid for a moment before knocking the glass back and emptying its contents in one swallow. She grimaces when she puts it back on the bar, her little nose scrunched up, and clears her throat violently. “Your turn,” she says, hoarse.

Gendry takes a deep breath and places his hand in hers. They’re warm and calloused, even more than his own are. “Like this?”

“No, no, you don’t put your hands in mine, you put them here,” she guides one to the small of her back, then puts her own on his back. “And you have to keep it there, because mine go here, okay?”

“Okay,” he manages to squeak out.

“The music’s not right, but we can manage. I’m just going to show you the basic moves. You’ll do the ‘lead’, and I’ll do the ‘follow.’ It’d probably be easier if you weren’t so damn tall,” she chuckles and he looks down at her, throat suddenly dry and heat rising into his cheeks. He prays she can’t see the blush, even though the sun’s up and the bar’s entirely flooded with light. “Move your foot forward and I’ll move mine back.”

He stares down at the hardwood floor, at her bare toes, and when the leg arches back, he replaces the space with his own foot. He can feel Arya’s muscles moving on her back, and it’s incredibly distracting.

He keeps missing his beat until she snaps, “Pay attention, Gendry! Move the same foot _forward_ when I go _back_!”

“You’re not exactly the most patient of teachers,” he retorts.

“And you’re a stupid bull who’s to stubborn to go in the same direction!” she huffs out a little breath and there’s a line between her eyebrows. The wolf stares at them, head cocked as though confused.

“Okay, okay! Let’s try it again. I’ve seen the vamps and sheiks do this before,” Gendry mumbles, brow furrowed in concentration to follow the basic steps. But his feet keep wanting to step on hers and he turns in the wrong direction.

But he gets it, he gets the delicacy it requires. He has to move a little faster than he’s used to, more fluid than carrying food to tables, less grounded than standing stable at the bar. And his arms, so used to beating out metal with a hammer, have to keep track of her every movement, grip her closer when she jerks forward, give her room to maneuver.

_I'm dancing with Arya Stark, oh god._

“You’re getting better!” Arya cheers and a grin spreads across his face. “Ah, keep going, don’t stop now!” she adds when his feet falter at the compliment, and he returns his attention back to the dance. They both catch on to the rhythm, the jukebox’s song swirling lightly in the air surrounding the two.

Then Arya dips, and it’s sudden and unexpected, exposing back her pale neck in the loose billowy shirt, and he can just see the very curve of her breasts where she’s tightly bound fabric. He’s busy staring at the subtle truncated curve, so it comes as a surprise when her leg climbs high to the backs of his thighs, knee bent around him like a hook. He nearly drops her.

She pulls back up and her face is flushed a lovely pink color, and she’s biting her bottom lip lightly with her teeth, hair still in messy short coils sticking up, and he has never wanted to kiss anyone more in his entire life. He wants to take her up into his arms and slam her against the bar, lick down her neck and unwind the cloth from her heaving chest.

“Gendry,” Arya breathes, staring up with eyes wide, “move!”

And he does move, body remembering the pattern of the tango, and she laughs with her head thrown back. Gendry finds himself laughing with her. He hasn’t laughed like this in a while, at least not since his smith burned down. He likes having Arya around, for some reason. He’s barely known her for a day, but she’s easy to be around. She’s comfortable.

He doesn’t want her to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I don't actually know how to tango, but youtube and google tried to show me. Apologies if this is not how the dance is done at all, though it was vague.)


	5. Rushed

He isn’t the best dancer, nowhere close to Jacinto, but Gendry makes a wonderful partner. He accommodates for her instantly, and, within a single hour, his moves are matching hers in speed and tone. She thinks she can stay in his comforting arms forever, but he breaks away eventually and tells her he needs to start preparing.

Arya works with Gendry all day, helping him prepare the meals they would serve later when they opened. She’s hopeless at anything other than with a knife, once Gendry teaches her how to use it. All her tomato slices are even with straight edges and her fingers move faster than she realizes what she’s doing. When Gendry isn’t looking, she feeds Nymeria scraps under the table. It seems his “No Dogs Allowed” rule was only valid the night before.

He’s good to her, polite but not oppressive, kind but not pretentious. Once or twice, she thinks she catches him staring at her, at her wrists chopping olives or her hair when her back is turned. But when she goes to meet his gaze, he’s looking away. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

Beric returns with the Kind Man around noon. When she spots him striding through the back door, Arya prepares to leave. The Kind Man tells her he still has business in the city, that they wouldn’t leave until the next night, and leaves again. She doesn’t know why, but she feels a thrilling sensation run through her at that. Gendry looks equally delighted when she tells him.

“I mean, you don’t mind sharing with me one more night, do you?” she asks.

“Course not. I appreciate the company. It gets real lonely ‘round these places once the owls head home and I ain’t too fond of cleaning up by m’self either,” he tells her.

“Sounds ace,” she jokes. “I love having nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs.”

“I’m sure we can rustle something up. Matter of fact, I’ll tell you what. You can help me serve.”

She nods, eager to help and pull her own weight. She helps him drag out the carts from the back and fill the tap, pouring strong whiskey into soda pop cans. Later, with the sun high in the sky, Gendry heads upstairs to change into his barman’s clothes. Arya leaves Nymeria in the back with a bone to worry over and goes back to the front.

From upstairs, he calls down, “Arya, you wouldn’t happen to own any white shirts and black vests, would you?”

She laughs at the thought of wearing fancy mens’ clothes. When she was younger and her mother tried to put her into a dress, she’d wriggle and fight until her mother sighed and fit her in Bran’s clothes instead. She takes the stairs two at a time to tell him she hasn’t owned anything _white_ that was not stained immediately after in nearly a decade. But when she reaches the floor, Arya pauses.

Gendry’s standing nude in the center of the room, digging through his wardrobe. She holds her breath and watches in admiration. She had known he was a big guy, buff muscles and all apparent when they danced, but she hadn’t imagined this much definition under his skin. It isn’t just his shoulders that are well built, she thinks, stifling a giggle.

“Arya,” he shouts again, and she ogles as he straightens, “Could you fit into my clothes?”

She tip-toes back down the stairs and stomps up them loudly one at a time. When she gets there, he’s wearing pants and scrambling to pull his shirt over his shoulders. The tips of his ears are red. She smirks and says, “Depends. Your current clothes or your clothes from five years earlier?”

He finishes buttoning before holding a shirt out to her, saying, “You can keep your boots and trousers. I think you’re just tall enough to fit, but you’ll have to stitch the seams of this shirt so it doesn’t look odd.”

“I couldn’t stitch a single seam to save my life,” she says truthfully and now it’s her turn to blush. She’d never wanted to learn these things because she preferred the rough-housing her brothers did, but the more time she spent with Gendry, the more it seemed she _should_ have learned them. They were useful.

He says, “I ain’t got needle or thread here with me, and we open too soon to run to the shops. You’re just gonna have to deal with this.”

She gingerly accepts the shirt as he pulls on his polished shoes. It’s clean and it smells like soap and musk, but even she can see it’s never going to fit her. Particularly not with her bindings. But she also knows she would have to be completely mad to open them and let her breasts fill the fabric in. She is just going to have to deal with this. Arya waits for Gendry’s footsteps to fade when he leaves before putting on two separate layers of clothes and trying the shirt on. It’s ridiculous, with sleeves hanging down well past her fingertips. She could wear it as a dress (a dress her mother would never consider “proper,” but a dress nonetheless).

Doing the best she can, Arya pulls on her boots and makes her way downstairs, where someone has already turned on the jukebox to light dance music, not the same as the morning. Gendry points her over to the bar and gives her the basic rundown of where the liquors were, what to do if the Feds burst in through the door, how to turn the tap because it stuck sometimes in the heat, everything about the inner workings of his space. She listens intently, determined not to mess up.

When he’s done, he gives her an apron and says, “Don’t futz this one up, _boy_.” And the way he mischievously smiles, like an intimate secret between the two of them, makes Arya’s belly flutter in anticipation.

With her first customer, Arya’s instantly excited. Gendry works next to her, carrying trays and delivering food to the booths, while she handles the bar. Nobody looks at her twice or asks anything and she thinks she’s finally found a way to blend in without being suspicious about it in a crowd: public service. Nobody cares who’s handing them a glass, as long as they get to drink it. She’s grateful.

She was right yesterday, about the atmosphere inside the bar, about how lively and rushed everything is. She doesn’t even have time to get nervous or spill anything and she finds herself humming along with every infectious tune, nodding in beat with the dancers and making small talk with patrons. The later the hour gets, the less people ask about dinner and the more they ask for drinks, until finally there’s a lull.

Gendry lounges beside her, leaning on the bar, and offers her a smile.  Most of the customers have left; she knew they’ll be closing soon. “You know, for a jane on her first day, you’re doing swell.”

Arya feels a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth and only says in return, “Were you expecting anything less of me?”

“So, listen, the Kind Man said you ain’t gonna head out ‘til tomorrow night. You wanna do something in the morning, go dancing or to a talkie? You know how to do the Charleston?”

“Of course. You’d take me?” Arya asks, feeling her pulse in her ears.

Gendry’s teeth show when he beams and echoes, “Were you expecting anything less of me?”

Their moment is interrupted when a woman approaches the bar and holds out her empty glass for a refill. Gendry leans forward. “Hey, doll. What can I get ya?”

She winks at him and says, “Why don’t you get me something sweet, daddy?”

Arya frowns. The woman was beautiful, with a bobcut the color of honey, wearing a backless flapper’s dress that showed off her ample cleavage and long calves, make-up caking her face, and eyebrows drawn on to perfection. A long string of pearls dangles into her bosom.

Gendry holds out a fresh drink and Arya can’t help but notice the woman’s hand lingering on his when she hands over the money. “Thanks. I’m Jeyne and maybe I’ll see you around.”

He’s got a goofy grin as he hands Arya the flapper’s old glass.

She takes it and considers telling him to go fuck himself. Instead, she unties her smock and lets it fall to the floor. Arya runs for the stairs.

Behind her, she hears Gendry calling, “Ary- Arry!” but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t slow until she throws herself down on her bed and begins furiously unbuttoning his stupid shirt that smells like him and doesn’t fit her. Then, in an ongoing fit on anger, she pulls off her own shirt, and the tighter one underneath it, then her bindings, all falling in an unceremonious heap. For the first time since her bath last night, Arya feels like she can breathe freely.

Some part of her knows and understands that she’s being needlessly bitchy and petulant; another part of her is insisting she’s done compromising and she has a right to be pissed and show it. A tiny part is sitting back with a smirk and watching the show.

Arya pulls the cover up over herself and lights a cigarette, seething, waiting for him to come up, even though she knows he’ll have to throw out the drunks and clean and lock up on his own first. She purposefully lets ash fall on his sheets before she smokes it down to a snub. Impatient, she turns on her side with her back to the door and thinks, _stupid girl. You never trust anyone again. You wait for the Kind Man to get back tomorrow and you stay faceless._


	6. I Wouldn't Lie

When he finishes all the sweeping, Arya’s wolf has somehow found her way to the front of the bar again. “Hey, wolf,” he calls, not remembering what her real name was. Arya had named her something complicated and uncommon- like herself. He gives the wolf leftover scraps customers hadn’t finished before heading upstairs.

Arya’s back is against him when he walks into the room. Her lithe form under the covers lit only by the dim streetlamps from outside the window is striking. She’s a gorgeous silhouette, like the pin-up girls he’s seen in magazines and tattoos of soldiers before, and he wishes there was a way to permanently capture that hollow shape she makes under the sheets.

He loosens his vest and sighs, sinking down on the mattress. “Arya, look at me,” he says tiredly.

“Ain’t you a real fucking drugstore cowboy!” she snaps without looking.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why don’t you go ask that bird you’re clearly carrying a torch for the size of the Statue of Liberty,” she barks.

Gendry laughs, somewhere between relief and charm, and says, “What? Is that what you’re so worried about?”

“Worried? Why the fuck would I be worried? I’ve evaded cops for years, been to Havana and back, slept in a boat the size of a closet, ran rum from here to Florida and I’m gonna head for California any day now to find my sister. And you think I’m worried over some bimbo like you just because I don’t get all dolled up and call you _daddy_?” She spits the last word.

He’s already heard quite an earful from her to know the problem, and for some reason, it pleases him. _She’s jealous._ He licks his lips anxiously and says, “I don’t expect you to be worried, I just wanna make sure you ain’t mad. It’d be a shame to have someone as pretty as you mad over someone as moronic as me.”

“You what?” she asks, stirring under the covers in his direction.

Gendry hadn’t particularly thought pretty was the right word to cover it, that wild beauty she had, from her messy short whirlwind hair to the way she walked with every resounding step to her eyes sparkling with untold jokes to cover a deep underlying pain. Pretty didn’t do her justice, but he was not a well learned man and he stuck with words he could understand. “You heard me right the first time. I think you’re the goddamn cat’s meow and you don’t even have to get all dolled up, lady.”

She hisses at the word, provoked, just as he’d hoped to do, and clutches the covers closer to herself. It’s only then that Gendry realizes Arya’s naked under them. “Oh, I didn’t think you were… I thought you’d be wearing-” he cuts off, embarrassed, looking away.

Arya makes a small noise of irritation that Gendry finds endearing, and before he can react, she’s off her bed with extraordinary quickness and straddling him where he’s sitting. His breath catches and he stops moving, a stone. He feels her delicate fingers put a hand on his neck and turn his cheek to face her. He keeps his eyes fixed on her, forcing them not to stray down her body.

“Did you just call me pretty?” she asks.

“I wouldn’t lie,” he says, voice hoarse and low, suddenly shocked by the heat she radiates and how he wants to absolutely ravage her on the bed. He clears his throat, “Arya, you gonna put something on?”

“You want me to?”

He hesitates, and Arya takes his hand and brings it to her breast. Gendry’s breath hitches. She’s soft and so lovely and- and her lips are heading closer to his, face angled so it throws sharp slants across her features.

“Cash or check?” he whispers.

She pulls back, confused.

He chuckles and she feels the vibration of his throat on her hands, she feels it in the pit of her stomach. “You really haven’t spent too much time ‘round here, have you?” He moves forward so his lips hover over her small pink mouth and clarifies, “You wanna kiss me now or later?”

She growls and catches him with her own lips to answer the silly question. Of course she wants him now. The kiss is nothing like with the other girls, from the bakery and the salon. This one is hungry, slick tongue and the underside of her mouth smooth, her small hands against his chest pulling at his unbuttoned white shirt until he thinks it’ll rip and that small nagging worry at the back of his head is warning him he only has two work shirts but it doesn’t matter because she tastes like freedom and cheap cigarettes and he doesn’t care about anything but this insatiable _thirst_.

“Does that answer your question?” she asks, panting when she comes up for air.

He leans back to kiss her again and she pushes with enough force that he falls back so he adjusts himself on the bed, cock aching for her touch. Draped over him, she murmurs against the stubble of his jaw where she’s leaving wet marks, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

“I-” he swallows and stares into her shiny eyes when she looks. “No.”

“Do you want to?” she asks, not really a question, more of a tease, and moves down to gnaw at the bones of his clavicle. The weight of her ass settles on his hips and every wiggle elicits a groan.

But it gives him the chance to consider, no matter how much his body is telling him to _please please stop thinking and fuck her._ He likes Arya, he really does. And the way her body grinds against his is the sweetest sensation he’s ever felt. But he’s a bastard working at someone else’s pub, and she’s a rumrunner disguising herself as a boy, and she’s leaving for Havana soon and- and he doesn’t want to do this to her.

“Can we not, actually?” he says lightly, still unsure, and her mouth leaving a trail of kisses down his abdomen pauses.

She looks up at him through the fringe of her eyelashes, an eyebrow raised. “What?” she asks, and her voice reverberates through him and his body is still yelling at his brain.

“Arya, you- you’re beautiful, and you’re wonderful. And I want this more than anything-”

“But?” she snaps, voice sharp and the slightest bit terrifying. Gendry remembers Beric telling him how ruthless Eddard Stark and his sister were when crossed. Both dead now, of course, but still not a family to antagonize.

“But you’re _you_ and I’m _me._ ”

Arya straightens and crosses her arms over her bare chest. “I hope your explanation’s better than that.”

“It is,” he reassures her, then lapses into silence. How can he explain to her, the girl who has no worry for consequences, that he lives in a very small world of serving drinks and taking orders and cleaning up? And that she lives in a different world, maybe an entirely different planet, where she was not raised to think hundreds of times before opening her mouth? Are there any explanation he can provide that would satisfy her?

“I don’t like being kept waiting,” the threat is distinct in her tone and it reminds Gendry that rumrunners lived in constant danger, they did illegal things and their situations were violent more often than he could imagine. And it was the world she was currently living in. That- that was her world. She had bounced from being the youngest daughter of a prestigious family to a thug. And maybe that’s why she intimidated him so much.

“Arya…” he trails off.

“Tell me why we can’t, _actually?_ ” she sneers his words back to him.

“You’re a Stark lady and I’m a bastard,” he mumbles. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Is that all?” she sounds amused. Gendry can hardly believe how their positions have reversed, from him chuckling down at her jealous and sulky, to her practically laughing at him, squirming and uncomfortable. He tries to sit up, but her hands at back at his shoulders pushing him down.

“Isn’t that enough?” he demands.

This time when she leans down to kiss him, her breasts pressed against his bare chest, she takes his lower lip between her teeth and bites so pain courses through his veins, and grinds down on his hard-on so the sensation’s replaced by pleasure. He groans against the pressure.

“I already told you,” she says, pressing her lips to his forehead, “I ain’t a glamour girl,” she kisses his jawline, “I ain’t a bombshell,” she kisses his throat where his pulse is pounding erratically, “and I sure as hell ain’t a lady. Now you gonna fuck me or you wanna stay up and talk some more about how classy I am?”

His resolve gone, melted like ice on her fiery tongue, he bucks his hips up at her every movement. His earlier reluctance forgotten, he begs, “Arya, please.”

She smirks back at him like she knows exactly what kind of effect she has on him, hands at the button of his trousers unfastening and tugging, and whispers against his skin, “Please what?”

Gendry thinks to snap back with a smartass comment, but all he can manage is, “Touch me!”

“With pleasure,” Arya purrs, spine lithe as she stands on her knees and lifts her ass in the air, the weight lifted from his thighs bringing a rush of blood to his hard cock. He lifts his legs and pushes off his pants. “You ready?” she asks and he feels past his haze of a disbelief a thrill in his belly at her hooded eyes and low voice.

Arya gently lowers herself onto him and he grips her waist, her skin soft under his rough fingertips. When she moves, she growls somewhere in her throat. She fucks like she dances, fluid and graceful, her body assured and confident with each rise and fall, long limbs tightly clutching his biceps, eyes boring into him, until he catches the rhythm and thrusts up to meet her pace. Gendry runs his hands from her waist up the curve of her back and her nails dig into his ribs when she pushes up, drawing blood, bordering on the edge of painful. The friction between them increases, faster and harder until he comes, his words garbled and mixed into a groan.

She keeps moving for a moment longer and moans his name when she comes, clenching around him as she rides out her climax. Arya collapses on his chest and her warmth is a luxury he revels in, despite the heat of the night. She rolls to her side and keeps one hand circling lightly over his chest.

“Arya?” he mumbles suddenly, feeling needy and desperate.

“Hm?”

“Don’t go.”

Lazily, she raises her head and peers at him. “I’m right here.”

“Don’t go tomorrow. To Havana or down south, California- wherever.”

The deep obsidian of her eyes hardens. “Come with me.”

He gapes at her stupidly. “I can’t. I work here. I can’t just leave. Beric needs me. The bar needs me.”

She turns her head to one side, resting her chin on his clavicle. “What if _I_ need you?”

Gendry swallows, throat dry. “Do you?”

Arya doesn’t answer. Instead she gets off the bed and stretches, giving him a wonderful view of her back in the dim light. She picks up the shirt crumpled on the floor and throws it on, folding the sleeves up and leaving it unbuttoned, the arc of her breasts peeking out between white cloth. Finding his pack of cigarettes, she lights one and inhales deeply. “I have to find my family. I have to save my home. Last I heard, the IRS or the Justice Bureau had seized Winterfell and my blood brothers were on the run. My sister’s somewhere in Cali and I don’t even know where the hell my half-brother is after he joined the Army, probably somewhere in Europe. And I have a list,” her voice drops several octaves and an ominous shadow passes over her features when she says the word. “You can’t expect me to leave all of that.”

“I don’t. I didn’t,” Gendry stammers, unsure what to say. All he knows is that Arya walked into his life and changed it, even if it had only been a day. He wanted more days- he wanted weeks to get to know her, months of flirting and dancing, years of her. He wanted her in dresses and pearls, going to cinemas and stadiums; he wanted her drinking and smoking, fucking and laughing, mad at him and seducing him- all of it.

She comes to sit beside him on the mattress, smoke curling around her short frizzed hair. She reaches out with her free hand and cups his jaw. “We had a great night, Gendry, and I’m thankful for that. But I have to go.”

And as much as it breaks his heart to admit, he knows she does.


	7. A Promise

She wakes to the rising sun, a golden awning over the room, cozy warmth of Gendry splayed out beneath her on the small mattress. Had she not been lying on his body, she would have fallen off the bed. There is never room for two, not here in New York where everything is small and constricted under bindings and sometimes she has to struggle to breathe. She breathes easier in Gendry’s company.

_I have to leave him_ , Arya thinks, studying his broad face and memorizing it, the stubble coming in on his jaws, parted lips, electric blue eyes framed with coal black lashes studying her back.

“Good morning,” he says in a voice laden with sleep.

“I hadn’t realized you were awake,” she mumbles.

He shifts over to face her and she misses his warmth for a moment, nothing longer, just a fleeting moment until she is able to stretch her long cramped muscles and is thankful for the space. “What do you want to do today?” he asks. “Dancing? Boardwalk? Talkie?”

“Doesn’t look like your body wants to go to a talkie,” Arya snickers. Her gaze flicks to the tent in his shorts.

Gendry’s face flushes bright red. She leans forward to press her lips to his. When she pulls back, he follows hungrily.

“Slow down,” she laughs. “I’m starving here. Remember me storming off angry last night without supper? You think I could get breakfast before round 2?”

The way a slow smile curves across his face, oh she knows she’ll dream of that smile for years when she’s alone and on the run again. “Want me to make you something?”

She nods eagerly.

“Kiss me first if you want me to get up.”

Arya raises an eyebrow. She straddles him, grinding down on his erection and he groans something obscene. She grabs his chin with one hand, roughly pulling him up, and takes his lower lip between her teeth, her tongue lapping at his salty skin, sucking and leaving a mark that would follow him for days so he would taste the bruise lying in his bed at nights or serving at the bar. Her mouth pulls away, only to come down again square over his.

They’re both out of breath when she whispers, “If a kiss gets you off the bed, what do I have to do for a glass of water?”

He squirms. “Er, I don’t know.”

“You really know how to charm a girl, don’tcha?”

The way Gendry looks, innocent and lost, makes her swallow back the chuckle bubbling in of her chest. She traces her lips down his chest instead, fingers mapping his body and ending up at the waistband of his boxers, his breath hitching when her tongue dips into his navel. From the fringe of her eyelashes, Arya watches him squeeze his eyes shut, breathing hard when she pulls down his shorts.

Arya takes his length into her mouth, gripping the base tightly. His gasp is audible and she feels a smile tugging at the corner of her heartstrings. She sucks lightly, tongue flat on the underside of his dick, pushing upward. His hands reach down to tangle in her short bed-tousled hair.

“Arya,” he breathes, a whimper more than a word.

She hums with him deep in her throat, knowing exactly the effect it would have when he hisses out a curse between clenched teeth. She grazes over the sensitive skin of his cock with her upper teeth and he whimpers again, hips jerking forward, and his hands in her hair turn into twitching fists as he comes.

She keeps her breath steady between swallows then leans back on her haunches, grinning.

“For that, I’d get you a glass of water, eggs, and my soul on a silver platter,” he sighs.

“I’m not picky,” she winks. “I expect you to be ready to fuck me when I’m back.”

“I thought you wanted breakfast.”

“I do. But I want you first.”

Arya gets off the bed and heads for the bathroom, picking up his white button up from the floor and throwing it on. Even now, it didn’t feel safe to walk around naked. Some things never change, and the paranoia that comes with the Faceless Men and being a refugee Stark chases her everywhere. Arya flushes and rinses out her mouth at the sink. The mirror reflects back Arya’s face, too thin lips slightly swollen, unshaped slashes of eyebrows, flesh around her jowls red from rubbing against Gendry’s skin. But she looks happy for a change.

She likes the girl in the mirror.

By the time she gets back to Gendry’s room, he’s sitting up and trying to straighten the heap of wrinkles his trousers have become where he left them crumpled the night before.

“You can do that later,” she tells him.

“As much as I’d like to do you instead right now, I have to work tonight and this is the only clean pair of trousers I have. Oh, and I need that one clean too,” he points at the shirt Arya’s wearing.

She pulls it off slowly, first the right sleeve then the left, deliberately. Gendry’s eyes follow her movements. She hangs it off a single bent finger so it sways precariously. “Want it?” she demands cheekily. “Come get it.”

Gendry leaps off the bed and, in a single fluid action, takes the shirt in one hand and the other slips around her waist, clutching her close with his arm, lips crashing together.

Even with her pulse and his breath in her ears, Arya hears the sound from downstairs. She lurches back, wide-eyed. “I heard something.”

They listen, pressed against each other: a bark from Nymeria and the distant rumbling of people talking. A sharp voice calls up, “Gendry?”

“Beric!” Gendry hisses.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ ” Arya sprints for her mattress, for the bindings and the rest of her clothes at the foot of the wooden frame. She looks back at Gendry, seemingly frozen in his place. Arya gestures to the bathroom and he nods as she makes her way to it on silent nimble feet, shutting the door gently behind her.

She struggles to listen to the faint voices, even as she binds the strips of fabric around her chest with trembling fingers

 A moment later, a knock on the door. The Kind Man telling her, “Arry? We gotta go. The coppers know we’re in New York. They’re looking for our truck.”

“Coming,” she has to remind herself to deepen her tone. She clears her throat and tries again, “Be right out, just need to piss.”

“Well, hurry the fuck up, we gotta leave _now._ ”

Arya pulls on her old undershirt over her bindings, the second looser shirt over that, pants, boots, and finally the newsboy cap over messy hair. When she comes out, Beric, Gendry, and the Kind Man stare at her. Her heart jolts.

Finally, the Kind Man turns away, snapping, “C’mon.”

“I’ll be right down, just lemme grab my things.”

Beric follows the Kind Man down the stairs. She will have seconds to join them, she knows, or her boss would have no qualms leaving her to fend for herself. Rumrunners are expendable. She finds her duffel and throws the few things she unpacked into it.

“Arya,” Gendry says behind her and she refuses to look.

_You knew this was coming,_ she chastises herself. No, no. She can’t deal with that now; she is not ready for a goodbye. Everything is happening too fast and it’s not fair. She was supposed to have a few more hours with him. It’s not fucking fair!

Inhaling deeply, she shoulders her pack and faces him. Gendry’s blue eyes are wet, brows drawn together.

 “So much for starting my day with sex and eggs, huh?” Arya tries to joke, but his frown doesn’t so much as flicker. She reaches out to smooth the lines on his forehead then kisses him hard, inhaling his scent and the feel of his tongue, his hands spread on the small of her back. The kiss ends too soon, the fierce rush of his lips gone a moment later. She tells him through clenched teeth, “I’ll be back.”

She doesn’t look back, unable to stand the forlorn expression on his face, taking the stairs two at a time. Down in the bar, Nymeria is already ready for Arya, tail wagging. Beric, sitting on one of the chairs, points toward the back where the Kind Man is waiting in the truck with the engine running. She runs out the back, feeling more than seeing or hearing Gendry trailing her.

She’s nearly to the truck when he says, “Wait.”

Arya twists her upper body just in time for him to see something flying for her head. She catches it, muscles moving reflexively. A red pack of Camel smokes.

“I’ll be back,” she repeats her previous words with conviction, features hard. “I promise. And you can fucking hold me to it.”

“I will,” Gendry nods.

Before she can open the shutters of the truck, the Kind Man throws open the door and points at Nymeria. “The dog can’t come.”

“Wolf,” Arya snaps automatically. “And what do you mean, can’t come?”

“Can’t take the risk of getting caught. Apparently, dogs smell other dogs faster and we know the coppers are going to be using everything they got to find us.”

Arya stares at him. “Are you fucking kidding me? You just made that load of bollocks up. You want me to leave her?”

The Kind Man’s withered old face is resolute. “You don’t like it, lad, you can stay here and let Beric throw you to the coppers when they come.” He gets back in the truck, the door slamming.

“Arry,” Gendry’s voice is gentle. “I can take care of her.”

“You swear?” Arya struggles not to let her voice crack. _She’s the last bit of Winterfell I have left, my last little bit of home, of Stark blood._

Gendry kneels down and pets Nymeria’s coat. Arya steels everything in her body and gets in the back, locking the shutters from the inside. She can hear Nymeria keening outside over the ignition and when the truck starts moving, she presses her spine flat against the jolting metal of the truck.

There is a wailing at the edge of her throat. She has never minded- not the constant running away, wearing borrowed filthy rags for clothes, for hiding herself behind fabric and deepened voices, changing her name until she could claim revenge and Winterfell in the name of the north, and she didn’t mind following orders.

As long as she had her wolf. Because when things got bad, curling up against Nymeria was her mother’s soothing voice and her sister’s teasing about wearing trousers instead of skirts. Nymeria was Jon Snow teaching her how to shoot a gun, elbow bent and breathing from her lungs, eyes focused, finger curled around the trigger and Jon’s instructions on how to reload. Nymeria was her younger brothers poking her and asking her to play or go swimming. Nymeria was sitting on Robb’s shoulders and watching fireworks on the fourth of July, was her father’s smile when she picked flowers from the garden and handed them to him on the morning of Father’s Day.

And now she was gone.

Even more than the ache of losing her home is this sorrow of losing Nymeria, like a knife twisting in her gut, the way she had felt when she read the papers and learned about Robb’s assassination. Leaving her behind with Gendry was the only security.

Arya curses angrily at the Kind Man, feeling her own helpless anger bouncing in the back of the truck, and slams her fist against the metal. Why does it always come to this?

She pulls up her knees and finds the pack of Camels Gendry had given her. She flicks open her lighter and watches the paper catch, glowing warmth and orange. With her first inhale, Arya finally lets her tears fall in mourning she hasn’t dared to feel in years.

Maybe her time as a rumrunner is up. Maybe she has done enough, ran enough, learned enough about the world. She has to find Sansa and her brothers. She has to find Cersei Lannister and leave a bullet lodged in her heart. Arya makes up her mind that she needs to set off across the states and take what was her own.

_I’ll be back,_ she thinks once more to herself. And this time it’s not just a promise, it’s a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was not supposed to get as long as it is currently getting, but after all this research I've done on the Roaring Twenties and getting this involved with Arya Stark, I have no idea when it's going to end and how far into the story I'll go. But I am /excited/ about it.


	8. Visitors

Gendry wants to mourn. He wants to let the tears pricking at his eyes loose down his cheeks and sob. But Beric's watchful eyes study Gendry as he tries to cajole Nymeria to come back inside the bar. He gives up eventually and returns back inside.

"You kept the bitch," Beric mutters.

"Yeah," he says, resisting the urge to correct Beric and tell him it was a wolf. His voice is hoarse. He swallows the lump in his throat and gets to dusting the already clean bar.

"You're gonna be responsible for feeding it."

"I know."

"The copper's are going to be here soon," Beric adds. "You know the drill. Deny anything, any alcohol, any rumrunners, any indication that they were here. They'll want to poke around. If they start getting too comfortable near the bar, ask them for a warrant. Just keep calm and ask to call me. If all else fails, I'll try to bribe them."

"I know," Gendry repeats mechanically.

Beric's quiet for a moment. "You got close to the lad, eh?"

Gendry shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. "He was alright. Orphan, like me."

"I know. Hard to make friends in times like these," Beric says. He stands. "I'll be back around opening time. You want me to stay for the coppers?"

"Nah, it's fine," Gendry assures him. Beric had explained to him when he'd first gotten the job that coppers were more likely to let a single serving boy off than the owner of a speakeasy. Gendry could always plead ignorance but Beric would go down no matter what. He was fine sticking with that plan.

Gendry waits for Beric to leave before he sits down with his spine pressed flat against the bar, bringing up his knees and staring despondently at the wooden walls. Now that he's alone, his tears don't come. Instead, all he has is worry and concern for her, out there on the road without so much as proper ffitting clothes. He looks up when he hears a sound, paws clicking against the floor. Nymeria. She curls up beside him and keens, her snout wet and warm against his ankles. "I know, girl. I miss her too."

He isn't sure how long he sits there like that when he hears a knocking. Nymeria's ears perk up. "Stay here," Gendry whispers, then feels ridiculous for talking to a wolf. He gets off the floor, dusts his shorts off, and makes his way to the entrance. He takes a deep breath and unlocks the door.

A man stands there in a blue cap pulled low over his face. Bright beady eyes peer up at Gendry. "Open up, police," he says, and his voice is more of a growl.

Gendry opens the door wider and lets the man in, his shiny shoes making loud claps on the floor. When the cop walks past him, Gendry stifles a gasp as he catches sight of his face. Half of it is burned, charred skin from cheekbone up to his hairline, half of the man's ear a mangled mess.

"Officer Clegane, I need to ask you some questions," the man says.

"Of course," Gendry answers, averting his eyes from the muddle of flesh, closing the door and following the man to one of the empty tables.

Clegane takes off his cap and Gendry gets a better view of his scar. He presses his lips together in a hard line and leans forward. "What do you know about rumrunners, boy?"

"Not much. They're illegal."

"And do you know what would happen if one was found harbored in a citizen's house?"

Gendry shakes his head, standing still at the table's edge. He's uncertain if he should take a seat or wait for the cop to offer him one. "Jail, I'm guessing."

The man falls silent and pulls out a notebook from his uniform's pocket. He flicks through a few pages. "Beric owns this place, eh? Beric Donnasomething."

"Yes, sir. Beric Dondarrion."

Clegane's eyes flick to the bar, where Nymeria is hiding, and return to settle on Gendry. "I've seen him 'round before. Seems like a right cunt. Running a clean establishment here, is that it?"

Gendry nods mutely.

The man laughs abruptly. He stands and stares down at Gendry. Gendry forces his gaze not to stray to his scars, intimidated though he is. Eventually, Clegane says, "I'm not a fucking fool. I know those pop bottles are full to the brim with liquor, whiskey'd be my guess. But I'll tell you what. I'm not interested in liquor and I’m not particularly interested in rumrunners. I'm interested in collecting bounty. You know for who?"

Blinking, Gendry shakes his head the tiniest bit, whispering, "No, sir."

Clegane's pupils shrink. "I'm looking for a Stark girl. A real fucking bearcat, I hear."

Gendry's pulse spikes and he prays the cop can't tell. He keeps his jaw set and voice steady when he asks, "Who?"

"You don't know of the Starks?"

"I've heard of them, but I thought they were all dead. I don't know why you'd come looking for one of them here."

Clegane smiles, showing teeth, half of his face contorted hideously. He's close enough for Gendry to smile alcohol on his breath, something strong. "I don't know why either. But I figure, if one of those Starks manage to get by someplace I've already been to, I've lost an opportunity and I'll be the one left holding the bag. Do you know how much money is on their head, just one of them? Do you have any idea how much the Lannisters are willing to pay for a Stark?"

Lannisters? Gendry's heard of them only vaguely. He knows they were involved in politics and some other business out west, real Hollywood Ritz types. They were one of those big names that appeared in papers when the Stark scandal was going on. He wishes now he'd paid more attention to the media. To Clegane, he says, "Sir, with all due respect, I'm just a busboy. I have no idea what you're talking about."

Clegane pulls away. He fishes in his pockets and pulls out a card. "Call me if you hear anything about a Stark and I promise I'll reward you handsomely, boy."

The card has a phone extension, an address, and the words embossed on glossy paper: _The Hound._

"Who's the Hound?" Gendry asks, tucking the card into his pocket.

Yanking open the front door and pulling his cap back on, Clegane grins his ugly smile again. "That's me." He slams the door behind him. As soon as he leaves, Gendry's legs give out and he falls into one of the chairs, gripping the edge of the table with both hands until the white haze passes from his vision. Clegane wasn't a copper, then. He was a bounty hunter.He can't imagine that man getting his hands on Arya or what he would do if he did. Nymeria comes from behind the bar, tail wagging.

"You did good, girl." Gendry tells her, patting her between the ears so she leans into the touch.

_Arya,_ he thinks. _Be safe._

Even though it's another busy night, Gendry can hardly concentrate. Beric stands over the bar, smiling and shaking hands of customers. Someone has turned the music on to the same tune Arya and he had danced to. Whenever Gendry has a moment to himself, he moves his feet to the rhythm she had taught him, but he can't remember the exact beat or steps. He sticks to serving and cooking.

By the time he closes down the kitchens, Beric is yawning.

"Good thing you're done back there. I feel like I'm gonna fall asleep on my toes and that goddamn bitch keeps staring at me like she wants to eat me," Beric grumbles. "I'm heading home early."

"Sure thing. See you tomorrow."

Beric hesitates a moment, throwing on his coat. "Gendry, listen. You've been doing a hell of a job running this place, handling coppers on your own, closing down every night… I just wanted to let you know that you've always got a place here, okay? I know you're over qualified and you probably want to get back to smithwork. But if you decide not to, you can stay here. You're like a brother to me."

Gendry feels the lump from this morning return to his throat. He's never had a family like this, never the feeling of acceptance he's reveled in these past few days. For Beric to say these things is both an honor and a heartbreak. He nods, at a loss for words to cover how he feels.

But of course, Beric understands. A warm smile spreads over his lips. He claps Gendry on the shoulder. "Good night, Gendry," he says, then adds begrudgingly, "And you can feed the bitch fresh meat from the coolers."

Gendry manages a laugh and watches Beric leave. He takes his place at the bar, glad the speakeasy is so crowded and full of life tonight. He needs the company, not looking forward to returning to an empty bed. To his surprise, the door opens and two people walk in. Gendry checks the clock; it's nearly midnight. Time for people to go home, not come in. He watches them approach the bar warily and Nymeria growls in her throat so Gendry has to run his hands over her coat to quiet her.

As they near, he realizes one of them is a woman in men's clothes, in wide legged trousers and a button-up shirt peeking through her long coat. The other figure is a man with a fedora, handsome, golden-haired, an easy smile with straight white teeth on his face. The kind that appeared on posters for cigarettes with a pin-up girl on each arm.

"How d'you do, sir and ma'am? Can I get you anything?"

"Just water for me, thanks," the woman says gruffly, staring at him for a beat longer than usual, then turning to scan the speakeasy and the dancing vamps. She pauses at a couple necking in a corner booth before turning away in disgust, mumbling, "No class."

The man groans and rolls his eyes. "Would you mind making me a Sidecar?"

"Sorry, sir, we're out of lime juice at the moment."

He sighs and drawls, "Just get me the damn brandy then."

Gendry gets their drinks ready, surreptitiously watching them. Their clothes look expensive, both the man and woman tense, even though the man does a much better job of hiding it. "You're not from around here, are you?" Gendry asks, placing two glasses before them.

"Nope. Travelled here from California and almost certainly missing it," the man grins and knocks back his brandy in a single long gulp. He holds the glass out for a refill.

"California? Long way from home," Gendry notes, taking the glass from him.

The woman pins him with her intent blue eyes. "You have no idea," she murmurs.

"Ah, ignore her. She's a bit of a flat tire." The man beams his charming smile again and holds out his hand. "Name's Jamie Lannister."

"Lannister," Gendry repeats, brow furrowing, handing Jamie his refill.

"Ah, good. You've heard of the family name," Jamie winks. "My friend and I, we're not actually here on official business."

The woman adds, "We’re looking for a girl, Sansa Stark."

Gendry's heart drops down to his feet, mouth falling open. Arya's sister. Jamie Lannister doesn't miss the sudden change in Gendry's behavior. The man moves forward, taking off his fedora and leaning over the counter of the bar. "You know who we're looking for, lad?" His eyes flick down and Gendry follows them. Jamie holds a small gun in his hands, pointed at Gendry. "You know a Sansa Stark with red hair?"

Scrambling for a story, Gendry stammers, "N-no, I don't. I've heard of the Starks but I don't know them. It's just," Gendry swallows hard, throat gone bone dry at the sight of the pistol. "A man was in here this morning asking the same thing."

Jamie's eyes narrow. "Who?" Gendry reaches into his pocket where he'd placed the card earlier. He holds it out for Jamie. Jamie reads the card and bursts out laughing. He withdraws his hand with the gun and Gendry relaxes the tiniest bit. Jamie passes the card to the woman, still guffawing. "Can you believe it? Everyone's favorite fucking dog is sniffing about on the case. Really, is there no limit to my sister's demands?"

"This is Sandor Clegane?" The woman asks.

"Oh, really, Brienne. Who else would actually put those words on their card other than Clegane?"

"He introduced himself as Officer Clegane," Gendry confirms stupidly, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. He should've known better than to talk in matters not his business. Not that it matters; Jamie already seems to know.

"He's no officer. He's a hired gun, a torpedo, a bounty hunter. He worked for my nephew in California," Jamie leans back and says, "What did he ask?"

"Just if I'd seen a Stark anywhere."

"And had you?" Jamie smirks.

Gendry shakes his head.

"I thought not. After all, if you had, you'd come to us instead of to him to collect your money, isn't that right?" Jamie asks, his smile suddenly gone, replaced by a tightly clenched jaw. Arya wasn't kidding when she said it was safer to pass as a boy than a girl, especially if this many people were after her, people with guns and cash.

"Yes, sir. Of course," Gendry says hastily, not mentioning that he doesn't even know where to get in touch with a Lannister, let alone collect the bounty.

Jamie sighs and stands. "Well, I've had my drink. Brienne and I will take our leave now. You know any place we could stay for the night? Someplace low-key, nothing fancy where we could be recognized."

"If you want low key and discretion, I suggest Chataya's inn. It's a few blocks walk east but I think it's worth it," Gendry tells them. He's had plenty of people ask for _low-key_ before. His forge had been across the street from the inn and he knew Alayaya well.

Jamie pays for the drinks and heads for the door.

The woman, Brienne, hesitates. She tilts her head forward, staring Gendry in the eyes. "Have you ever been to California?"

"No, ma'am."

"Your parents, are they from the west?"

"No," he says slowly, puzzled. "What is it?"

She shakes her head and gets off her stool. "You looked familiar, that's all." She offers him a smile, the first expression on her face all night that's not a scowl, and it makes her look surprisingly younger. Even though she doesn't have an attractive face, for the moment that she smiles, Brienne looks almost pretty and Gendry wonders why she doesn't wear woman's clothes or get all dolled up like every other woman out at this time of night with a date.

Gendry watches the couple leave the same way he'd watched them arrive, with anxiety and uncertainty. When he glances at the clock, Gendry realizes it's past closing time. He gets rid of the drunks and the still-dancing flappers, wondering if any of them knew the tango and knowing he wouldn't dance with them even if they did. Once they're gone, Nymeria woofs and Gendry throws her a bone. When he goes up to his room, Nymeria follows him up the steps. She lays down on Arya's empty mattress, still smelling like her, and settles in for the night. Gendry doesn't have the heart to move her.

Instead, he sits on his mattress and thinks of her grey eyes, the mysterious red-haired sister, and his three visitors until sleep finally takes him.

He dreams of her touch.


	9. A Proper Girl

**_Six months later._ **

 

Dusty roads, boots caked with mud, lonely diners with bitter cups of coffee. This is what life has come down to for Arya. She left the Kindly Man somewhere in Virginia and headed west, torn between California and New York but unwilling to choose. So she meanders instead, finishing her list. She stops by the motel where she had stayed after she first ran from the Lannisters, right on the very outskirts of Omaha.

Raff the Sweetling still works there, the man who had bragged about killing one of the boys Arya travelled with. She strangles him in the back office, steals his revolver, and makes short work of his friend Dunsen at the front desk with a single bullet through his eye. She recoils from the loud bang, for a moment shocked, forgetting not every gun comes equipped with a silencer as they had in Winterfell when Jon taught her to shoot. She runs from the motel and keeps the gun tucked in her trousers.

The next day, she heads for Salt Lake City and the Freys, where Robb and her mother had been assassinated during his campaign. She never makes it there.

In Kansas, she opens the morning paper to see her face plastered across the front- or at least a close enough portrait of her, under thick block letters: _WANTED_. Arya's breath catches in her throat. She studies the sketch, her thin lips and wide eyes. They even got her newsboy cap and short hair sticking out of it. The lines beside it read: "This unnamed man was identified by an eyewitness as the only person present at a crime scene in Omaha."

Face burning, Arya snatches her cap off. She'd need to change her hair again, get rid of this cap, travel the fuck away from main roads in case anyone recognized the contours of her face, thanks to it being on the front page of the paper.

_New York._

The idea comes unbidden to her mind, loud and obvious. Where else would she go? Back to Gendry, to Nymeria. She has enough money, both knicked and saved up, to use public transport. But hitching a ride might be easier and more convenient. Besides, it was getting colder. Autumn was on its last few pages, flipping quickly to winter.

As soon as she leaves the diner, she picks the lock to a house that looks empty and sneaks inside, taking stock of their full closets and poor security. By the time she comes back out, she looks like a girl again; a proper girl with her short hair brushed out and plucked eyebrows, a dress on and bindings off. Her tits strain against the fabric and she realizes with embarrassment she has no brassiere. It doesn't matter.

Her last glance at the mirror had left her shocked and apprehensive; she had looked more like Sansa in that moment than she ever had before in her life.

Now she sticks her thumb out on one of the back roads out of Kansas, waving at cars in the waning light of day, an orange glow spreading over the dusty asphalt. Arya knows it's not safe, but she has her gun tucked into her boots and strength in her bones and New York on her mind. It doesn't take long for a convertible car to stop.

"Where you going, missy? Should you be out alone this time of evening?" the man asks with a slight accent, something that sounds vaguely familiar like Havana and her rumrunning days. He's wearing a three piece and his hair is curly, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Arya pouts, thinking of the girl who had hit on Gendry at the bar, and says in a sugary voice, "Hey, daddy, gorgeous breezer," she grins and leans down to give him a view of her cleavage. "My beau and I had a fight and he left me out here all alone on the side of the road. You think you could drive me back to my father's house? I gotta warn you, it's real far, but I packed my stuff and I ain't going back to that asshole, if you'll pardon my French."

The man's eyes flick from her breasts up to her face and he takes his cigarette from his mouth, frowning. "Honey, you might wanna cover up," he says mildly and Arya straightens, pulling up her neckline self-consciously. "You know how dangerous you could be out here alone? Where's your father's place?"

"Where you headed?"

"Michigan. Wife's expecting our fourth."

"That's perfect! I'm in Ohio."

The man glances at her duffel bag with some suspicion. "What'd you say your name was?"

"I didn't," Arya smiles, less seductive now and more genuinely vulnerable. She swallows back a lump and lies, "It's Catelyn, but my friends call me Cat."

"Well, Cat, I'm Syrio Forrel and I'll be your driver for the next few hours," the man smiles, white teeth contrasting with his tan skin. "Climb aboard. I'll take you over to Ohio so a father doesn't have to worry about his little girl anymore."

Arya gets in, feeling strangely at peace with this strange man though she knows she should be more aware than ever. His car reeks of tobacco smoke and engine oil. "Thanks so much, sir! I'll pay you back somehow, I swear it."

"No need, _mi cariña_. You remind me of my eldest. You got her crazy eyes, you know?" he says, accelerating along the road. "Just do me a favor, would you, Cat? Tell me the truth."

Arya freezes, wind whipping through her freshly brushed hair. "Excuse me?"

"Honey, I raised three daughters and now I got another kid on the way, a daughter again if the past is any witness. You think I can't catch a teenage girl lying through her teeth?" Syrio glances at her for a moment in the mirror and adds, "I'm not gonna kick you out of my car, but you gotta know that nobody hitches a ride to Ohio this late dressed like _that_."

She takes a deep breath and murmurs, "I'm running away from home. New York. Gonna be an actress on Broadway."

Syrio sighs something loud and obnoxious. Putting on a show, Arya suspects, for her benefit. He stubs out his cigarette and lets the butt fly away in the wind before saying, "I'm gonna tell you the same thing I tell my girls, Cat. I can't help you 'less you tell your old man the truth. Because I can tell that you're still lying to me."

"I'm not," Arya manages, though her throat threatens to close up.

"Okay, you want to know a secret, _mija_? Why I am travelling by back roads like you instead of the highway? Maybe that will make you trust me. Open the glove compartment."

Arya opens the front glove box and stares in the last light of the evening. Beside a packet of cigarettes is a small wooden box. Arya pulls it, running her fingers over the polished dark brown. "What's inside?"

"A fresh batch of cocaine that I am taking back to my wife as a gift for the baby. I work with some well-connected people, you understand? My wife and I have shared many enjoyable times with it so I am bringing this to her, but alas, I cannot be caught with it."

"No, you can't," Arya agrees. She wonders for a moment what well-connected means, who exactly Syrio works for. If she thinks hard, she can remember her father speaking of it back before the Prohibition and before this whole mess she was in. She returns the wooden box to the glove compartment and says, "It's illegal and it's probably not good for the baby either."

Syrio laughs, "The wife only has after the baby stops feeding from her breast. And I know it is illegal- that is why I will understand when you tell me the truth, _mi gata montés._ " Arya shivers, suddenly realizing how cold the air has gotten. Syrio must notice, because a moment later, he stops on the side of the empty road and tells her, "Time to put the cover up, yes?"

"Will you give me a ciggy?" Arya asks as he gets out of the car.

"You are like my daughter," he says, raising an eyebrow. "I would not give her one and I will not give you one."

By the time he gets back in the car, Arya has made up her mind. Arya chews on her bottom lip before she finally breaks the silence, "Okay. My name isn't Cat. It's Arya," she waits for a reaction but none comes. She adds, "Arya Stark of Winterfell."

He gapes and turns to stare at her. " _The_ Starks?" he asks, returning his eyes on the road.

"Yeah, _the_ Starks. I'm Ned Stark's youngest daughter."

Syrio's eyebrows draw together. "And you are running from the Lannisters in California, yes? Back to Detroit?"

"I can't go back to Winterfell," Arya admits, feeling her voice crack as it always does when she's reminded she can't go back- not yet. "The IRS seized our estate. I really am going to New York to find my friend. He'll help me."

"Help you do what?" Syrio's voice is sharp now, his accent stronger. "You can't trust just anybody, Arya. It is not a wonderful world and Starks have money on their heads."

"I know," Arya snaps. "But I don't have anyone else I can turn to and did you see this morning's newspaper? My face is plastered on the front page with a fucking _wanted_ sign."

Syrio, to her shock, laughs. "Is that what you're afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid," she retorts. "I'm worried."

"At least that is good. Worry will keep you alive and sharp; fear will only slow you, dull your senses, graze deeper than a bullet," Syrio is quiet for a moment, then he says, "I will take you to New York, okay little cat? I cannot take you any further or my wife will kill me, but that much I can do."

Arya feels a smile spread over her face. "That's all I need, Syrio. Thank you so much."

"Why were you in the papers?" The question catches her off guard. Before she can formulate a lie, Syrio quickly says, "Don't lie to me, dear child."

She answers honestly, "I killed two men. Men who mistreated me and my friends when I first ran from California, years ago."

He hums in response and lapses into the silence of the dark air, saying nothing else, neither approving nor condemning.

Arya doesn't realize when her eyes grow heavy and she falls asleep in the comfort of Syrio's car, still waiting for a response that never comes. She dreams of her family, of when her father had brought the wolf pups to Winterfell and she had first laid eyes on Nymeria's blue eyes and black hair and fell in love with her.

Of course Nymeria's eyes are green, not blue, and her coat is brown, not black.

But of course, it's not quite Nymeria she's dreaming of.

 

Syrio shakes her awake. Arya jerks into consciousness and blinks into sunlight. "Where are we?" she asks, hoarse voice. She stretches, suddenly aware of the tangled knots her hair is in and stolen make-up smearing her face. She wipes with the back of her hand, powder coming away on her wrist.

"We are in New York City, little cat. It is nearly four and it is time for us to part ways," Syrio tells her softly.

Arya shoulders her duffle bag from the floor of the car, ensuring her gun is still there, taking it out of her boot and putting it into her bag as well, and gazes out into the street Syrio is parked on. She recognizes it only vaguely, unsure if she can find her way to Gendry's speakeasy on her own. She'd been in the truck most of the time, only getting small glances out the window. Even though she has a decent sense of direction, it's been months since she was in this area. "Syrio," she turns to him. "I cannot express how grateful I am to you."

"Arya, when you told me you are Ned Stark's daughter, I almost told you then. But I waited until now," Syrio says, confusing her until he takes a deep breath and adds, "I worked for your father. My organization, in Cuba and in New Mexico- we worked closely with the Starks in the north."

That explains his comment on well-connected. "Why are you telling me now?"

Syrio rummages in his pockets and finds a piece of paper. "A man must stay loyal to his true friends, little cat. There are still those who support the honest Starks, even after everything these Lannisters and Baratheons have done."

He scribbles something on it and hands it to her. It's a number. "What is this?" she asks.

"If you call them and tell them who you are, they will help you. They will help Arya of Winterfell take back her world, the last of the free known Starks."

She stuffs the paper into her duffel, beside the flattened carton of Camel, and slowly gets out of the car to stretch her cramped muscles. She turns back to Syrio. "Congratulations on the new baby," she says.

Syrio nods once, then his car is gone.

Too late, Arya realizes she is absolutely starving and not really sure where she is. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, managing to slightly straighten her hair and make-up, the dress uncomfortable but not too bad. She wanders the streets with her duffel before finding an alley and quietly sitting against it with her legs drawn up and her head down.

She misses Winterfell, suddenly and fiercely.

To distract herself, Arya digs through her bag and finds the map she'd filched a while back, tracing the lines with a finger. When she collects herself and stands again, she has a better sense of where to go, just a few blocks away. The sun is setting already, days ending sooner than she'd thought, casting long shadows. The wind picks up and Arya wraps her arms around herself. Her dress is no protection against the chill in the air.

She rounds one of the empty streets and her heart nearly comes to a complete standstill. Two men are talking to one another, one in uniform. Police uniform: holster, cap, shiny shoes. Arya takes a single step back, hoping to disappear as quietly as she had shown up, but just then one of them glances up straight into her eyes.

Arya has time only to catch half of a scarred face that she recognizes before she turns back and runs. Followed by a shout from the man who'd looked up, the man from California, _Sandor fucking Clegane_ , Arya doesn't look back. Her boots pound the pavement, contents of her bag shaking, and she suddenly remembers the gun. She finds herself in another alley and darts behind a trash bin, trembling hands looking for the pistol, finding clothes and bindings and stale bread before she closes her hands around metal and she snatches it out just as Clegane's shadow steps to her.

"I'll shoot, I fucking swear to god," Arya growls, slipping off the safety and backing away from him into an increasingly dark corner. She refuses to turn her back to the man she'd left behind in California. "Don't you come any closer."

"I'll be fucking damned. Arya Stark in New York. What the fuck are you doing here?" he asks, looking more amused than worried.

She blinks, not expecting him to be caught off guard by her appearance, thinking he had somehow found out she'd be coming back and waited for her. "I'm not doing anything. I'm going back to Detroit," she lies.

"That right?" the Hound smirks at her, half of his face still just as grotesque as she remembers under the darkness of his cap. "One of your ex-employers, the Kind Man, I believe, told coppers down in Georgia he left a skinny rumrunner up in New York. Then you go and appear on the front page of the papers! Most of those dumb fucks still think they're looking for a boy, but I knew it was Arya Stark when I saw that image and the Kind Man told me about your dog."

"Wolf!" Arya nearly shouts. "Just leave me alone, Clegane."

"You know, I was doing just that. Didn't come down to Georgia to question that old man, didn't go to Omaha to look for you. I was fine living nice and quiet on my own. Then you had to go and practically show up on my fucking doorstep. Now, why don't you put that gun down 'fore you hurt yourself?"

Arya shakes her head. She was close. She was so close, so fucking close. Gendry's bar is only a few minutes away. To the Lannisters hired dick, she says, "I plan on walking past you without you following me, understood? I'm the one with the power to kill you."

The Hound moves faster than she can see, drawing his own pistol and pointing, and repeats, "Put your gun down."

"If you think I'm joking…"

Before Arya can finish, she spots the Hound's finger move to the trigger and instinctively, her own finger squeezes and the _BANG_ s that follow are loud enough to nearly make her drop the gun.

Everything happens too fast after that. She hears the second noise more than she comprehends it, and reflexively, she shoots him again. Two spots of red blossom out from his uniform, both on his chest, staining the light blue of fabric. Her pulse is too loud in her ears, nearly masking out the sound of her second gunshot, and she realizes then that her shoulder is throbbing with a sharp pain.

The Hound falls back in almost comical slow motion and the muscles of Arya's left arm are too relaxed so she can't hold up her hands anymore, letting them drop, still gripping the gun and gingerly tucking it into its place in her boot. A word echoes through her mind, something Yoren had told her when she watched her father die: _shock, shock, shock-_ but it can't find a place to settle amongst the agony in her shoulder.

The streetlamps cast a sickly yellow pall over the roads when Arya steps over the Hound's body lying very still, and heads out in the night. Blood gushes from her wound, even though she presses her duffel to it with her right hand. A wave of dizziness washes over her and she has to squint to make out the name of the street she is on.

She has to struggle just to stand straight, walking down the back row of businesses and their boarded up windows, some with trucks parked in the back to unload. But no one is visible other than her stumbling limping self and her breath visible in the air. She manages not to fall but has to stop when the world starts spinning and turning black around her. When the fuzziness fades and Arya has some of her vision again, she pants and leaps forward, knocking over a trashcan. As the loud metal screeches a cacophony to the concrete, a dog yelps in the distance.

It's not a dog, she knows.

Arya finds the right one, the right door where she had broken her heart. She makes her way to the wooden door and has just enough strength left to knock _(is she knocking or pounding?)_ with both of her fists, even the one that wracks with pain and sends spasms down her body.

She falls to her knees on the back porch of the joint, feeling grit under her knees, the duffel falling to the ground beside her. She doesn't notice when the door opens, spilling light and heat, and she doesn't notice strong arms picking her up and carrying her inside. She hears only the yipping of a wolf and a low voice in her ear telling her it would be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post from tumblr user lightfromtheshadowsshallspring. Thank you for the idea!


End file.
